


The Listening Game

by irisbleufic



Category: Toy Soldiers (1991)
Genre: Boarding School, Canon Character of Color, Inspired by Music, M/M, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-25
Updated: 2006-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-01 21:29:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Like every story, this one begins with a song—or two, or more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Listening Game

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Thia in the 2006 Yuletide Challenge.

"Another Saturday night, and I ain't got nobody—"  
  
"Oh, for fuck's sake," said Joey, tossing his library book on the floor. "Would you turn that shit off?"  
  
Phil stopped singing, looking mildly hurt. "I thought you liked Cat Stevens."  
  
"Not this song, I don't," said Joey, and the bunk above Billy's head creaked. "I only hear it on the radio every other day."  
  
Billy put down the wires he'd been twisting together and sucked on the tip of his thumb. Sharp little fuckers.  
  
"Want your book back, Joey?" he asked, wearily. This only happened every weekend.  
  
"No point," said Joey, shifting some more on the mattress. "I can't concentrate."  
  
Phil turned down the volume on his cassette player, but he didn't turn the tape off. "I swear, you can't win around here."  
  
Billy shrugged, picking up the wires again. "It's cool. I don't mind."  
  
"Yeah, but the Music Nazi here doesn't seem to think so."  
  
"Look who's talking, you Aryan snot."  
  
"Hey, cool it," Billy said, giving up on the wires. "He's Irish, and you're Italian. Just deal."  
  
"You're Irish, too," Joey reminded him, his face appearing over the edge of the bunk. "I thought you people had better taste in music."  
  
"And I thought you liked Cat Stevens," Billy pointed out, peering back up at him, arms folded. "Generally speaking."  
  
"I do," said Joey, with a hint of exasperation. "Just not this song."  
  
"I thought it would be appropriate," Phil cut in. "It's the first Saturday night of fall term and we're sitting around like a bunch of losers. There aren't even any off-campus parties to sneak into."  
  
"All I wanted was some time to read," Joey muttered, and disappeared again.  
  
"Then get your damn book," said Billy, getting up to fetch it.

Joey looked surprised when Billy handed it to him.  
  
"Thanks," he said, retreating back to his rumpled pillow with a look of vague remorse.  
  
"Don't mention it." Billy sat back down on his own bed and stared at the wooden slats above his head. It _wasn't_ a bad song, and his dad had been playing Cat Stevens at him since he was four years old. It brought back lots of car-trip memories: just the two of them, without his mother. "Those were the days, though," he said.  
  
"What?" asked Phil.  
  
"When?" Joey ventured, nearly at the same time.  
  
"I don't know, the seventies," Billy said. "When we were little. This tape makes me think of me and Dad on road trips."  
  
"This tape makes me think of my uncle's cheesy-ass casino lounge shows," Joey admitted glumly.  
  
"Ah," Phil said, sympathetically. "That would do it."  
  
Billy folded his arms behind his head, eyes closed. "Don't you guys have _any_ songs that bring back positive memories?"  
  
"Sure," said Phil, grinning and stretching. "Elton John all the way. My parents always played it when we drove places for family vacation. They still do. I'd think they were weird if they didn't have such a good time."  
  
"Or if you didn't actually like it, too," Joey replied, under his breath.  
  
"What's wrong with Elton John?" Billy asked, perplexed. Something was up with Joey tonight, but he didn't know what. He'd only known Joey since June, when summer term started, but he'd opened up surprisingly fast. Billy hadn't expected it, especially not from a guy who started fights—although he hadn't for a while—at the slightest provocation.  
  
"I didn't say anything was _wrong_ with him," snapped Joey, suddenly twice as defensive as before. "You know me, I love that stuff. _Goodbye Yellow Brick Road_ is great shit."  
  
"The song or the album?" asked Phil, leaning forward in his chair.  
  
"Album," said Joey, absently, apparently reading again. "Both."  
  
"What's the best song, in your opinion?" Phil pressed, his tone almost challenging.  
  
_That's easy_ , Billy thought.  
  
" _Bennie and the Jets_ ," he said, in near-perfect unison with Joey.  
  
"Geez, the answer even comes in stereo," Phil said. "Could've guessed that one."  
  
"So, what song do _you_ think's best?" Joey shot back. There was a smirk in his voice.  
  
Billy grinned and shook his head, waiting for the answer. One minute Joey worried him, and the next, everything was fine.  
  
"Don't have a favorite," said Phil, shrugging. He sounded honest, at least.  
  
"You boring fuck," Joey said, with pity. He turned a page loudly.  
  
"Hey, I just like them all. It's not my fault you're so opinionated. What kind of stuff did your parents play, anyway?"  
  
Billy frowned. Joey's immediate response was silence, and the turning of a few more pages.  
  
"Hard to say," he said, finally. "I remember some Elton John. Mostly, though, I found my own music. Dad didn't actually drive us personally that often. We don't really play music in the limos. The beater I drove around, though, I used to keep some of my tapes in the glove compartment." Joey was trying for detached, but instead he sounded kind of strained. "How about you, Billy?"  
  
"More Cat Stevens," Billy confessed. "You know the soundtrack to _Harold & Maude_?"  
  
"That movie is a mind-fuck," Phil observed, unhelpfully.  
  
" _Besides_ Cat Stevens," said Joey, yawning. Billy heard him close the book.  
  
"I'll only tell you if you swear you won't laugh," Billy said, knowing they would anyway.  
  
"Try me," Joey replied. The hint of challenge was back.  
  
"Fine," Billy said. "My dad likes folk music."  
  
"That's a really broad category," said Phil, not anywhere close to laughing. "What kind?"  
  
"Celtic, mostly," Billy said, pretty certain that _now_ the laughter would erupt on cue.  
  
"Huh," Joey said, as if he was trying to remember something. "There's this Irish lady a friend of mine back at home was saying I should look into. He said she was pretty New Agey, though, and a lot of her stuff starts to sound the sa—"  
  
"Enya," Billy blurted, before he had the good sense to bite his tongue. "Dad listens to her, too. It's not so bad."  
  
"Good to know," Joey said. "Has she got many albums?"  
  
"Only two," Billy said, figuring he might as well fess up. "Dad has both."  
  
"I would never have guessed your father for the sensitive type," Phil joked.  
  
"Mom was the cause of the divorce, not him," Billy said. Now _he_ was being defensive.  
  
"Snuffy won't stop getting on my case about the so-called chick rock I listen to," Joey muttered. "I can sympathize."  
  
"Siouxsie isn't chick rock. She's pretty hardcore," Phil said, glancing up at the poster approvingly. "And hot."  
  
"Notice I haven't put up any posters of the Indigo Girls," Joey said, kind of bitterly.  
  
"They're not so hot," Phil lamented. "Even for lesbians."  
  
"Don't be shallow, moron," Billy said, not giving Joey the chance to snap at him. "My mom used to listen to them, I think. The lyrics kind of stuck in my head."  
  
"Mine too," said Joey, pensively. The mattress creaked as he rolled over.  
  
Billy sat up and stretched, yawning. "What time is it, anyway?"  
  
"Just past midnight," said Phil, giving his neglected math assignment a depressed glance.  
  
"'Night," said Joey. Whether he was drifting off to sleep or wanted to be left alone, Billy couldn't tell.  
  
"Yeah, might as well," said Phil, getting up from his desk. "We're pathetic."  
  
"No, we're not," Billy replied, following suit. "We're having a cultured discussion. Where the hell is my nightshirt?"  
  
"Which one?" Joey asked, drowsily.  
  
"The one I wore last night."  
  
"And the night before that," Phil muttered, "the night before that, and—"  
  
"Over by the guitar case." Joey's voice was so soft now that it was barely audible.  
  
"Oh," Billy said, heading for the corner and snagging it up from the carpet. "Thanks." He studied the guitar case for a second, as if he'd never seen it before—he had, of course; it had been there ever since they moved into the triple together at the end of summer term in July. If he thought about it, he missed sharing a double with Joey. Still, it hadn't occurred to him to ask whose guitar it was.  
  
"So, who plays?" he ventured.  
  
Joey didn't answer. Asleep, probably.  
  
"Oh," Phil said," already on his way out the door with his towel and toothbrush. "Joey does."  
  
Billy pulled his shirt down over his head, then stood staring at the guitar case for what felt like a long time. He wanted to open it. He wondered what kind of guitar Joey would have. Also, he felt kind of offended by the fact that Joey hadn't told him. Billy had always envied people who could play instruments. Hank could play a bit of jazz piano, he knew, though Regis was short on old pianos to bang on. Regis had no live music scene to speak of. Why didn't Joey remedy that? Well, he could sort of guess, given Joey's general lack of esteem for his classmates, and vice versa. Still, it was a shame. He wondered if Joey was any good.  
  
"Huh," Billy said softly, and went to bed.  


 

* * *

  
  
The next morning, Joey was quiet at breakfast and even quieter during lunch. He smiled at Billy like he usually did—soft and shy, almost as if it was a secret they shared—but his responses to Billy's questions while they worked on their assignments were unusually curt. Billy decided he was going to re-open last night's discussion, because it had been interesting, and he wanted to know what some of the other guys listened to. Maybe Joey would finally tell him about the guitar and what he used it for, or maybe the other guys would.  
  
"Well, most of the time, we can't settle on anything," Snuffy said, sarcastically, "because Mozart over here doesn't like my show tunes, and I don't like his lounge music."  
  
"Do you want your ass kicked in gym class or not?" Hank asked, scowling.  
  
"See?" Snuffy said, raising his eyebrows in mock earnestness. "This is an epic conflict."  
  
Joey was rubbing his forehead and staring at his casserole like he wished he could dissolve into his chair. Billy resisted the urge to reach over and take hold of his hand, make him stop, and say something to make him laugh. Instead, he looked at Hank.  
  
"You like lounge music?"  
  
"I like jazz and swing music," he said, stabbing a green bean with his fork. "It's just that Sondheim here can't tell the difference."  
  
"At least the nicknames you give each other aren't all that insulting," Joey said, picking through his casserole for peas. "I like Sondheim _and_ Mozart."  
  
"You like everything," said Ric. "It doesn't matter."  
  
"I don't like rap," Joey said, decisively, and left it at that. "Or what passes for country these days. Give me bluegrass anytime, man."  
  
"Amen to that," said Hank, offering Joey a high-five.  
  
Joey took it. At least it got him to stop nursing his imaginary headache.  
  
"What do you listen to, Ric?" Billy asked. This ought to be interesting.  
  
Ric shrugged, as if he didn't feel he had anything to contribute. "The radio. I kind of like Aerosmith and Pink Floyd."  
  
"Excellent," said Billy. "I've got some of their stuff, too."  
  
"He listens to this pop chick who sings in Spanish. I think he just likes the picture of her on the jacket insert," Snuffy volunteered. "Not bad-looking, but that's the kind of thing Phil's little sister would listen to."  
  
"Shut up," said Ric. " _My_ little sister listens to her, thank you very much. She gave me the tape before I had to come out here. She thought it would remind me of home."  
  
"Does it?" Joey asked, looking satisfied with his pile of peas.  
  
"Yeah," said Ric, swilling his milk. "It does."  
  
"California must have a lot of hot Hispanic rock chicks," said Phil, wistfully.  
  
"It has a lot of hot rock chicks, period," Ric said, perking up like he'd been proud all along. "Not just Martika. There's this crazy redhead from North Carolina or something. She has a band, and they play a lot of the clubs on—"  
  
"Wouldn't be Y Kant Tori Read, would it?" Joey asked, hopefully.  
  
"Yeah, it would," said Ric, pointing at Joey with his fork. "Why Can't Something, I was going to say."  
  
"They just have this one tape," Joey said. "I wouldn't have known about it if D.'s cousin hadn't given it to me at one of our jam sessions."  
  
"Cool," Snuffy said. "The band invited their female cousins to your rehearsals?"  
  
"No," Joey said, scathingly. "Only D."  
  
Billy was trying so hard to catch up with the conversation that he couldn't decide what to ask first: who Dee was, or what band and rehearsals Snuffy might be talking about. Ric was looking at him, plainly amused. He tapped Joey on the shoulder.  
  
"Hey, Joey. Have you been hiding this shit from Billy just like you hid it from us?"  
  
Joey gave Ric the kind of look that you just did _not_ want to get from him. Ever.  
  
"Hope you don't mind my asking," Billy said, "but yeah, I'm sort of lost. Who's Dee?"  
  
"D.," Joey repeated, clipping the word. "As in Dean. He was a friend of mine during junior high at public school in Jersey."  
  
"Ah," Billy said, sensing that there was a brick wall waiting about two more words into the conversation. "So—was he in a band you hung out with?"  
  
Everyone else at the table was looking at Joey, some perplexed and some impatient.  
  
"He was in a band I played with," Joey said, not looking at any of them.  
  
"Wow, that's cool," Billy replied, trying to keep it casual. "I guess you brought your guitar to Regis. Do you still play?"  
  
"Not very often," Joey said, glancing up. His eyes were hard with unexpected hurt. "What do you care?"  
  
It was the closest Joey had ever come to dealing Billy a blow. It stung. Snuffy just shook his head and started eating again. Hank was pointedly minding his own business, and Ric was looking at Joey as if he was really worried. Phil cleared his throat.  
  
"You really should play again," he said, earnestly. "I really liked that song you—"  
  
"No," Joey said, and, without excusing himself, picked up his tray and left.  
  
Billy was too stunned to follow him, but Phil was looking at him now, so he took what he could get. "What was that all about?" he asked, hoping his voice didn't waver.  
  
"Long story," said Phil, starting to gather up his things. "I'll tell you later, but not when Joey's around."  
  
Just like that, Phil was gone, too. Ric suddenly remembered that he had some history questions to finish, and Hank said he wanted to compare answers. That left Billy sitting across from Snuffy, which was apparently just what Snuffy had been hoping for.  
  
"So, there _is_ something you don't know," he said, curiously triumphant.  
  
"No shit," Billy said. "Apparently there's a lot I don't know about most of you, thank you very much." He hadn't felt so excluded since his first prep school. It was one of the reasons he'd turned to pranks. At least it earned you some kind of respect.  
  
Snuffy looked slightly apologetic. "Phil will tell you. I'd just get picked up for cussing if I were to do it here and now, and then Phil'd get pissed at me. I've got to go."  
  
Billy sat alone for another thirty seconds, not really feeling like going back to the room. Joey might or might not be there, but Phil probably _would_ , and putting himself in temptation's way wouldn't do his homework marks any good. The more he thought about it, though, the room was his only reasonable option for peace and quiet, so he went.  
  
He'd managed to listen his way halfway through _The Wall_ and fall asleep by the time somebody got back. Thankfully, it was Phil. He didn't imagine Joey would turn up until late. He tended to hide out in the art room when he didn't want company. Billy caught him there sometimes, but he always felt a bit like an outsider.  
  
"Hey, get up," said Phil, tossing his bag on the floor. "We have maybe ten minutes till Joey's done sulking in the bathroom, so I've gotta make this fast."  
  
Billy sat up and rubbed his eyes, instantly awake. "I'm listening."  
  
"Right," Phil said, sitting down in his chair, elbows resting on his knees. "So, it went like this. Right after Joey got here last fall, he and I ended up as roommates. I introduced him to the other guys—he and Hank had that bad patch on the soccer field, but they cleared it up fast. When we found out he played the guitar, Snuffy managed to convince him he ought to play for us down in the rec room one Friday night. He was pretty hesitant, but he said, okay, sure. So, we all went down there with Joey and his guitar, and he was all, right, well, this stuff I play, I write it, and some of my friends back at home helped write it, too. He said the band called themselves the Screaming Pink Brigade, and not to ask why, because they weren't even sure they knew. And then he started playing, which would've been amazing enough in and of itself, because you can tell he's either a natural or had some kind of classical guitar training. Crazy shit, but it didn't stop there—he sings, too. He just sat there and played and sang and the rest of us were exchanging those 'Holy shit, what's he doing here?' kind of looks, but in a good way, because even the lyrics were great. He was about to start a third one when—" Phil glanced at the door "—McAllister and a couple of guys strolled in. They had been listening out in the hall for a while."  
  
"So? Were they impressed?" Billy asked. The way Phil was telling the story, he could tell there was something extraordinary going on, or perhaps something dangerous.  
  
"No," Phil said. "That's the trouble. They weren't impressed at all. They—" Phil's head turned at the sound of footsteps, and so did Billy's. "They asked him if he'd learned to play like in the Village, exchanging...favors for lessons, that kind of thing. Joey told them to go to hell, and the only reason we walked out of there without having to explain a bloody nose on McAllister is because Hank held Joey back. We didn't ask him to play again after that. Enough damage done, right?"  
  
Just as Phil trailed off, the door swung open. Billy sat up straight and waved, trying to look as if he hadn't just been told that Joey's music had gotten him branded a fag by the biggest Rejects in the entire school. No wonder Joey didn't like to talk about it. If there was anything Joey hated, it was labels and presumption—even if he used them to fight back. Somehow, though, last night's Nazi exchange just didn't compare.  
  
"Hey," Billy said. "How's it go—"  
  
"Ask Phil," Joey said, shuffling through the papers on his desk.  
  
Phil gave Billy a stricken look, then turned quickly to his overdue math assignment.  
  
"Thanks, man," Joey said to the back of his head. "That was really big of you."  
  
"Grow up," Phil said, scribbling furiously.  
  
Joey looked from the back of Phil's head to Billy, then at the tape deck.  
  
"This album is for stoners," he said, and walked out again.  
  
Billy flopped back on his bed and stared at the slats for a while, taking in the music. When he finally closed his eyes, the sting along his lashes felt a lot like tears.  


 

* * *

  
  
"Billy," someone said in a whisper, shaking his right ankle. " _Billy_."  
  
"Hmmm?" Billy muttered, sitting straight up. There was a moment of mind-shattering pain as the top of his head collided with the slats, and an even longer moment of cursing and hissing into his pillow. The hand on his ankle softened and went still.  
  
"Jesus Christ, sorry," said Joey, not whispering anymore. "Are you okay? You slept through dinner."  
  
Billy forced his eyes open, still clutching the back of his head. "Oh, gee, thanks. Now I'll have to wait till breakfast."  
  
Joey looked as stricken as Billy felt.  
  
"Phil didn't want to wake you up."  
  
"You could've," Billy said, sitting up again. "If you'd wanted to, that is."  
  
Joey's eyes went as hard as they had at the lunch table, then softened again, as if he just realized he'd spent the better part of the day being a complete and utter jerk to Billy (and probably to everyone else, too). He ducked and sat down on the side of the bed, giving Billy's ankle a pat before folding his hands in his lap. He was searching for words.  
  
"I did," he said, and that was all. "But I noticed..."  
  
Suddenly self-conscious, Billy rubbed his eyes. _Fuck_. They were crusted with more than just sleep. "I think I'm allergic to something," he lied. "I'm not sick."  
  
"Right," Joey said, quickly staring back down at his hands. "So, um, I'm sorry I dissed your tape. I didn't mean it like that. I don't mind _The Wall_. It's good for painting. My art teacher back in Jersey used to put it on while we worked."  
  
"I bet _all_ of you were stoners," Billy said, in a desperate attempt to lighten things up.  
  
"Funny you should say that," Joey said, and actually smiled a little. "D. and the guys, they lit up all the time. I barely had to take a hit, there was so much of it in that fucking basement. D. used to say we were the only garage band who practiced in the basement."  
  
"I hate to say it, but that's lame. Every garage or basement band I've ever heard of says that, only switched around to suit whichever they are," Billy said, instantly regretting it.  
  
"That's the point, dickhead," Joey said, laughing, and reached for his ankle again. "Come on, are we going to get you some food, or what?"  
  
"Uh, Joey? The caf is closed."  
  
"Some of the shops in town aren't," Joey said, tugging on Billy's foot. "C'mon."  
  
"Joey, they're gonna be ringing the bell in, what, two hours?"  
  
"We can make it," Joey said, tossing Billy's shoes up onto the bed.  
  
Billy sighed and grabbed his shoes. Joey wasn't one to insist on something unless he had something up his sleeve, and those times were few and far in between. There was just enough of an air of mystery to the situation, and, in his mind, Joey kind of owed him.  
  
For early October, it was unusually chilly. Joey was hunched down so far in his jacket that Billy was reminded, fleetingly, of a turtle—no, of _Turtle_. God, how long ago had he read that book his grandmother had given him? It had _Game_ somewhere in the title, and it had been really fun. Kind of like _Clue_ , only not really, because that was the best movie in history. Billy almost had to run to keep up; Joey's pace was quick.  
  
"This is stupid, but you just reminded me of a character in a book I read," Billy said, talking just to fill the silence with something, anything. "It was like a murder mystery, only not really, and it had a really big cast and prank-notes in the apartment complex elevator." Better not to tell Joey the character he'd reminded Billy of was a girl, though.  
  
"The...something _Game_ ," Joey said, and Billy could practically hear the memory-gears turning. "Ellen...Rankin? Raskin! _The Westing Game_ , yeah?"  
  
"Yeah," he said, his breath condensing in the chilly air. "So, where are we going?"  
  
"Mara's," said Joey. "They're open late. I thought you liked their sandwiches."  
  
"I do," Billy said, shoving his hands as far into his jeans pockets as he could. "But we won't have time to sit in or anything."  
  
"Nope," Joey said. "Just enough time to order takeout and eat it on the walk back."  
  
"Thoughtful of you," Billy said, hoping that it didn't sound sarcastic. He meant it.  
  
"Yeah, well, I'm not the evil mastermind you are. If it'd been me, you would've figured out a way of setting out silver candlesticks and five courses."  
  
That was nearly enough to stop Billy in his tracks, but instead, he just sort of stumbled and kept on going. They were nearing the intersection that led into the main street of town, and if they wanted to stay under the sheriff's radar, they'd have to avoid passing the liquor store or the police station. Even for western Massachusetts, the town was dodgy.  
  
When they reached Mara's, Billy grabbed a menu and started to browse through. Unexpectedly, Joey stepped right up to the counter and ordered for him. Billy set the menu down, deciding he'd forfeited the right to ask questions. A chicken parm sub was fine; as long as Joey would share the Coke he ordered for himself, Billy was sure they would manage. They ended up sitting at one of the small, well-worn tables and staring at each other's hands. The elephant had clearly left the dorm room and followed them.  
  
On the way back, Billy ate the sub as quickly and snagged the Coke off of Joey the first chance he got. "So," he said, handing it back, "are you going to tell me what this is about?"  
  
"I don't think that's necessary," Joey said, taking a long sip from the straw. "Phil already did, and he probably gave you a fairer account than you would've gotten from me."  
  
Billy nodded in partial agreement, the one thing that he really wanted to say caught in the back of his throat. Or it might've been some cheese and marinara. Either way.  
  
"I don't like talking about it where a lot of people can hear," Joey said, handing the Coke back to Billy. "And I was pissed at Phil for beating me to the punch. I would've told you, all right? I just needed time, but nobody gave me that."  
  
"What's wrong with playing the guitar?" Billy asked. "Or being in a band? All I ever wanted for the longest time was to _be_ in a band."  
  
"Yeah, what kid doesn't," Joey said, as if it were a burden. "Amateur gigs pay crap. I could barely get out from under my dad's nose for long enough, or often enough. And we weren't that good anyway."  
  
"At least you _got_ gigs," Billy said, offering him what was left of the Coke.  
  
Joey refused it with a wave. "No, D. got us gigs. I got them canceled half the time."  
  
"I would really like to smack your dad right about now," Billy said, glancing sidelong at Joey. _God, would you get your nose out of that cup and look at me for a second?_  
  
Joey glanced back, half smiling—soft as usual, but not quite as secret.  
  
"You and me both," he said, and moved just a little bit closer to Billy as they walked. The road was dark now, lined with shadows, except for the occasional passing car. A few of them slowed as if the drivers thought maybe they were hitchhikers. It made Joey grin.  
  
Back at the room, Phil was having a panic attack.  
  
"Jesus, if you guys had been out for just ten more minutes, do you have any idea how much trouble I would've had explaining where you were? Huh? I'm no good at making shit up," he said, running to shut the door behind them. "I understand that a guy's got to eat, but man, you were cutting it close. _Really_ close. Hey, any Coke left?"  
  
"No," said Joey, tossing the empty cup into the wastebasket.  
  
Billy stuffed his used-up bag and foil in on top of it. "Sorry."  
  
"You suck. I'm gonna go shower," Phil said. He hunted for his towel, which had fallen behind the door, and left. Joey looked out after him, then stepped back into the room, closing the door. He shrugged at Billy, still wearing the same amused grin.  
  
"I guess someone's got to worry," he said, and bent to untie his shoes.  
  
Billy kicked out of his own and stood in the middle of the room for a few seconds, wondering what he ought to do with the extra time they'd been given alone. His eyes drifted to the guitar case, but he thought better of it. _Way too soon_.  
  
When he glanced back at Joey, Joey was already looking at him.  
  
"Not tonight," Joey said, walking right up to him, closer than he'd ever gotten. "Sometime, but not now."  
  
Billy's mouth felt dry. Joey was so close that Billy could feel his breath.  
  
"Sooner rather than later, I'd hope," he said. It came out rough and uneven.  
  
Joey just nodded, his eyes falling to the floor, and walked over to the ladder.  
  
"Get some rest, huh?" he said, climbing up to his bunk.  
  
"What if I'm not tired?" Billy asked, jumping up onto the edge of his own bed. Joey already had a magazine unfolded in his lap, flipping pages. Billy closed it.  
  
Joey gave him an inscrutable look. "I thought your allergies were acting up."  
  
"I'm not tired," Billy repeated, not a question this time.  
  
"I am," Joey said, and took back the magazine.  
  
"Right," Billy said, hopping back down to the floor. This was getting him nowhere. Lacking something better to do, he tugged his shoebox of tapes out of the closet and fished through. If Joey didn't mind _The Wall_ , then who knew what else he wouldn't mind. Probably not any of his dad's old stuff. Billy picked up a really dusty one without a case. He hadn't heard the Pogues since...well, probably since his dad drove him to Regis. He crossed the room, popped it into Phil's tape deck, and sat down on his own bed with the bundle of wires. He was hoping to get the hang of a wire tap before he actually tried one out. He was thinking of messing with Parker's phone line in the not-too-distant future, maybe next fall as the first in a line of senior-year pranks, if only he could find the right wires in a remote enough location. He'd need the time, for sure.  
  
"What is this?" Joey asked, abruptly.  
  
" _Rum, Sodomy, and the Lash_ ," Billy said, feeling somewhat reckless.  
  
Joey was silent for a beat, then recovered. "Er, the band is called that?"  
  
"No, the album," Billy admitted. "It's the Pogues. You've heard of them, right?"  
  
"Yeah, as a matter of fact," Joey said. "D. liked them, but I never found the time to pick up an album."  
  
"D. must've liked a lot of things," Billy said, uncertain of what he meant by it.  
  
"He did," Joey said, distantly. "He introduced me to a lot of great stuff."  
  
_Like rum, sodomy, and the lash?_ Billy wanted to ask, but instead, he said, "Good of him."  
  
"We were always swapping things, though," Joey said. "Nothing new." Then, after a long moment of silence, "These guys are _excellent_."  
  
Billy felt a pang of hope, as if he'd finally managed to find something that had gotten through. "Yeah, aren't they? We haven't even gotten to my favorite song," he added.  
  
"What's that?" Joey asked, peering over the edge of his bunk and down at Billy.  
  
" _A Pair of Brown Eyes_ ," Billy managed, but just barely, because Joey's were staring at him, and _fuck_ , why hadn't he noticed _that_ before? Fucking hell.  
  
"Traditional?" Joey asked, unblinking.  
  
"Um, no," Billy said, dragging his eyes away in order to clip off the bit of wire he'd twisted into oblivion. "I think they wrote it."  
  
"I was afraid of that," Joey said. Billy heard the mattress creak, which meant he was gone.  
  
_Fuck_ , Billy thought, his mind a broken record, snapping all the wires in half.  


 

* * *

  
  
The next morning, Billy woke up to find that he'd overslept English by ten minutes. Joey and Phil were already gone. "Great, I sense a pattern," he muttered, and got up.  
  
His shoes were exactly where they needed to be for his feet to land on them, but one of them sort of...crunched. Billy rubbed his eyes and picked up his right foot, which was stinging a bit somewhere between the ball of his foot and his heel. There was a cassette-tape case in his shoe with a yellow Post-It attached. He picked it up, squinting. In Joey's handwriting, the note read:

  
  
_Fine, if you want me to play, I'll play. All I ask is that you play along. Here's how it goes: I ask you a question, you send a response, I ask you another question, and so on. It stops either when I get the answer I'm looking for, or when you give an answer I can't interpret any way I want. Got it? Good. You just stepped on your first question.  
  
J.  
  
P.S. Listen to the whole thing if you want, but I made sure it's cued up._

  
  
Billy peeled the note away and looked at the album title: _Raw Power_. He knew who Iggy Pop was, but he couldn't say he'd listened to anything that he hadn't happened to come across on the radio or on somebody's stereo at one of his past schools. His eyes scanned the track listing—cued up, yeah, but to _what_? He didn't recognize any of the songs by title, so there was only one way to find out. He walked over to Phil's desk and popped it into the tape deck. Billy turned it on and hit play.  
  
The burst of guitar was startling; if he hadn't been awake before, he definitely was now. A few bars in, it was clear he had better turn down the volume, or somebody might hear. It was already bad enough he wasn't rushing around to get to what was left of English. He was willing to bet the words were more interesting than Mr. Oger's poetry, though, and—the words. He should really be listening to the words, shouldn't he?

  
  
_Honey, gotta help me please  
  
Somebody gotta save my soul  
  
Baby, detonate for me  
  
Look out, honey, cause I'm using technology  
  
Ain't got time to make no apology  
  
Soul radiation in the dead of night  
  
Love in the middle of a firefight  
  
Honey, gotta strike me blind  
  
Somebody gotta save my soul  
  
Baby, penerate my mind_

  
  
Then more obnoxious, catchy guitar and _I'm the world's forgotten boy / The one who's searchin', searchin' to destroy_. Billy had to turn the song off before it had completely ended, because the screaming and the guitar were going to draw attention sooner or later. Billy sat in Phil's chair and tapped his feet to the remembered rhythm, frustrated. If he understood the rules of Joey's game properly, the song was trying to ask him a question—or maybe just tell him something. The more Billy thought about it, the more it didn't tell him anything he didn't already know: Joey had a bigger outcast complex than all of them put together, but he didn't go around whining about it like Snuffy did. He just let it boil until, every once in a while, the lid would go clattering to the floor.

  
  
_Honey, gotta help me please_ —

  
  
Well, maybe that was new. Joey was never one to ask for help; he'd only accept it if you offered, and even then, only if you were somebody he trusted and if he knew you'd held out as long as you could before offering. Again, nothing new. If he really wanted somebody to save his soul, though, he'd be better off asking his priest back at home, or maybe Father Green. Billy's frown deepened.

  
  
_Soul radiation in the dead of night  
  
Love in the middle of a firefight_

  
  
There was that, and there was also the oddly pleading _Baby, penetrate my mind_. If he was asking Billy to be more sensitive to his drastic mood swings, or anticipate them, well, Billy was doing the best he could and doubted he'd get any better at it, unless Joey gave him a bit more slack. _Honey, gotta strike me blind_ —  
  
Huh. Maybe that was exactly what he was doing. He thought about the walk into town last night and the way it had been completely unexpected. Usually, that was the kind of thing _he_ would do for _Joey_. Okay, fair enough: Joey had won this one.  
  
"Shit," Billy muttered, glancing at Phil's clock. There were only twenty minutes left in first period. If he went to class now, he'd get in more trouble than he would for skipping. If Parker called him on it later, maybe he still looked shitty enough from yesterday that he could plead feeling under the weather.  
  
It was worth a shot. At least he had an extra twenty minutes to find a response in his tape collection, leave it for Joey to find, and dash off to History.  


 

* * *

  
  
Much to Billy's disappointment, Joey didn't show up to lunch. Joey's absence at meals wasn't uncommon—he sometimes had better things to do, though what those things were, very few of them actually knew. Billy found it hard to pay attention to what Hank and Snuffy were saying; it all seemed so...pointless. Only the thought that Joey might be in the room listening to David Bowie on his headphones offered any consolation.  
  
For all Billy knew, Joey would think that _Changesbowie_ was a lame album with nothing serious to say. He'd done his best to cue the tape to _Heroes_ without actually listening, because he'd been really short on time, and if any song on there expressed "I'm with you—but you've got to make an effort, too," it was probably that one. He hadn't been able to find anything better, and, well, he liked David Bowie. Billy wondered if, in Phil's book, that was as bad as liking Elton John. At least nobody could argue that _Labyrinth_ was a damn cool movie. And actually, _Heroes_ was a damn cool song, but he was a bit worried about some of the lyrics...

  
  
_I  
  
I will be king  
  
And you  
  
You will be queen  
  
Though nothing will  
  
Drive them away  
  
We can beat them  
  
Just for one day  
  
We can be heroes  
  
Just for one day_

  
  
Billy skewered a chicken nugget and bit the inside of his cheek. Not so smart of him, maybe, choosing a song with that kind of metaphor in it—heaven knew, Joey had enough trouble with McAllister and other jerk-offs questioning his sexuality. Still, Joey as an intelligent reader, and he ought to get the message. It was still embarrassing...

  
  
_And you  
  
You can be mean  
  
And I  
  
I'll drink all the time  
  
'Cause we're lovers  
  
And that is a fact  
  
Yes, we're lovers  
  
And that is that_

  
  
...especially when the metaphor got a bit out of control. Well, fuck. Billy put down his fork, reasoning with himself. Again, Joey wasn't stupid; he'd get the point about Billy not giving a shit about his temper, because Joey didn't give a shit about Billy's reckless behavior. Friends, like lovers, had to make those compromises. Sometimes, if you were lucky, it wasn't even a compromise at all. Billy liked to think that, for them, it wasn't.  
  
"Earth to Billy," Joey said, and set a tray down beside him.  
  
"Jesus," Billy muttered, jumping slightly. "A little warning next time, huh?"  
  
"Yeah, whatever," said Joey, laughing, one hand coming up to briefly pat Billy on the back. Funny, how such a small, mundane gesture suddenly had more weight behind it—solid, warm, right there between his shoulder blades, Joey's fingertips curling in slightly. He'd gotten into the habit of taking it for granted, and now all Billy could do was take it apart. Just as quickly, Joey's hand was gone, and he was sitting beside him.  
  
"Maybe you'll have better luck than we did," Snuffy said, rising with his empty tray. "Billy's been in his own world all afternoon."  
  
"Contrary to popular belief, I _do_ think sometimes," Billy said, glaring. He wasn't even in the mood to be flip or sarcastic. He just wanted to know he hadn't screwed up.  
  
"Asshole, let's go," said Hank, butting into Snuffy's elbow with his tray. "You owe me some trig solutions."  
  
"Blow me," Snuffy muttered—probably to both of them—and Hank steered him off.  
  
"I would not want to be his handler," Joey said, pushing around his chicken nuggets. "So, d'you want me to fill you in on English?"  
  
"Nah, later," Billy said, sitting back and folding his arms across his stomach. "God, this is gross."  
  
"Yeah," Joey agreed, cutting one of the nuggets in half suspiciously. "No peas to fall back on."  
  
"Canned veg," Billy sighed. "I don't know how you can eat 'em."  
  
"Better than processed meat," Joey said, eating one half of the nugget anyway. "How are you?"  
  
The question was direct and out of nowhere; one second they were having a useless conversation on the ills of cafeteria fare, and the next, Joey was acting all concerned. Well, not _acting_ , Billy knew that. Joey cared. He even cared about some people who would never even know it. Billy counted himself pretty fortunate.  
  
"Not bad," he said, finally sparing Joey a glance, half smiling. "Tired."  
  
"I've noticed," Joey said, not returning the smile. He didn't blink, eyes fixed on Billy's.  
  
Billy's stomach clenched on the emptiness of panic. Joey hadn't been clear about whether they were actually supposed to discuss the game outside the game, or if they could discuss the songs as if there wasn't any subtext going on in them, or—  
  
"Is your foot okay?" he asked, breaking into a grin. Secret. Like they shared a secret.  
  
"I'll live," Billy said, and grinned back. So, he'd scored a point after all.  
  
"C'mon, finish up and I'll brief you on English."  
  
As they ate in near silence, it slowly dawned on Billy that the waiting would be torture.  


 

* * *

  
  
The next tape didn't turn up until Tuesday evening. Billy found it slipped into the front pocket of his backpack with a piece of thick sketchbook paper wrapped around it, secured by a rubber band. Joey's graphite fingerprints were smudged all over it.

  
  
_If you lose track of this one, I'm going to have to kill you. Kidding, but I paid a lot for it. Singles are usually a real rip-off, but this one's worth every cent.  
  
Enjoy, you shameless royal alcoholic.  
  
J._

  
  
Billy laughed aloud, relieved. If Joey could tease him about something that had scared him to death, then they were definitely going to come out of this conversation alive, regardless what else was said. Billy stuffed the note in his pocket, then turned the tape over in his hands. It wasn't in a case. More Iggy Pop—just a song called _The Passenger_ , which was just simple enough to be really boring or to make you curious.  
  
He had maybe forty minutes till Joey and Phil got back from soccer practice. Just as well, because he was always less likely to get in trouble for using Phil's tape player than for using Joey's Walkman. Joey was so touchy about his music paraphernalia that it was a miracle he was entrusting these tapes to Billy. A miracle, and it said a lot.  
  
_Shit_ , Billy thought, and popped in the tape. His stomach felt empty again.  
  
Tambourine. Piano or keyboard. Banged, bluesy, low-key chord sequence. It couldn't have been more different from the first song, and the words were easier to catch:

  
  
_I am the passenger, and I ride and I ride  
  
I ride through the city's backsides  
  
I see the stars come out of the sky  
  
Yeah, the bright and hollow sky  
  
You know it looks so good tonight  
  
I am the passenger  
  
I stay under glass  
  
I look through my window so bright  
  
I see the stars come out tonight  
  
I see the bright and hollow sky  
  
Over the city's ripped backsides  
  
And everything looks good tonight  
  
Singing, la la la la la la la la  
  
La la la la la la la la_

  
  
Not just that, but catchy. _Really_ catchy. Billy got through the whole song once before he remembered he was supposed to be finding some hidden meaning, so he rewound and hit play again. So, maybe Joey was saying thank you, or saying, yeah, okay, I know that, and guess what, I enjoy the time we spend dicking around. There was something darker there, the more Billy listened—the chords stayed in the same middle register, never rising, never falling. Cruising along. Not a driving song, or even a happy one...

  
  
_Oh, the passenger  
  
How, how he rides  
  
Oh, the passenger  
  
He rides and he rides  
  
He looks through his window  
  
What does he see?  
  
He sees the sign and hollow sky  
  
He sees the stars come out tonight  
  
He sees the city's ripped backsides  
  
He sees the winding ocean drive_

  
  
Not like Billy had a car, either, or could take Joey on spectacular ocean drives. He would, though, if he had one, and he'd—but wait, metaphor, metaphor! He _did_ take Joey on rides, didn't he? Pranks, schemes, feats of lame-ass derring-do, and all Joey ever did was go along with it. Smiling, but going along all the same. Cruising. Jesus Christ.

  
  
_And everything was made for you and me  
  
All of it was made for you and me  
  
'Cause it just belongs to you and me  
  
So let's take a ride and see what's mine_

  
  
Billy stopped the tape even though the song wasn't over. For some reason, he didn't think he could listen again, at least not until tomorrow. Joey was finally asking him when he could take the lead, what was really in it for him. Was that it?  
  
"You tell me," said Billy, angrily. "You tell me why you let me drag you through mud and dust and old building plans, huh? You could say no, and I'd take it. You know it."  
  
The song wasn't going to answer unless he started it back up again—and, just, _no_. Did Joey think he knew everything? That he was an expert, that he thought every plan or prank he'd ever come up with was automatically going to work? They didn't always. Sometimes, they backfired, and sometimes they didn't even get off the ground. The reward in pranking lay mostly in the rare few successes you actually got.  
  
Or was Joey getting at something else entirely?  
  
Billy covered his eyes with his hands, leaning heavily on Phil's desk. The friendship, right; the songs had been dealing primarily with that. But the pranks were part of it as much as anything, as much as these stupid games they played when they didn't know how to be frank with each other. That happened a lot, Billy supposed. The only difference was that Joey had decided to take a step and make the game explicit.  
  
A wisp of fear flickered in his chest, beat after quick beat. It felt a lot like being heartsick.  
  
At least he'd get the chance to tell Joey he had no fucking clue what he was doing, and nobody, but _nobody_ could say it better than Pink Floyd. Reverently, he wrapped Joey's precious tape back up in the note and set it in his shoebox where _A Momentary Lapse of Reason_ used to reside. Deliberately listening, he cued the tape to _Learning to Fly_ —his anthem, somehow, he'd always felt—and ripped a piece of paper out of the nearest notebook, which happened to be Phil's.  
  
_So who wins?_ he wrote, and folded the paper around the tape.  
  
He tucked it under Joey's pillow and left, not planning to return until late. He needed to take a long walk, one that just might include picking up a 10-pack of Joey's favorite candy bar and maybe some cheap wine if the liquor store guy was in the mood to be bribed.  


 

* * *

  
  
The next two days passed in an interminable haze of oh-my-God-this-can't-be-happening. Joey went on with his regularly scheduled program of chivalrous concern, as if he was trying his best to make sure Billy wasn't coming down with the Freshman Flu or losing any more sleep. He didn't mention the song, or even Pink Floyd, but he was in a more stable frame of mind than Billy had seen in a while. Encouraging, but disturbing.  
  
"Hey," Phil said at dinner on Thursday, pulling a ratty flyer out of his pocket and passing it to Billy. "Look at this!"  
  
So, the legendary off-campus parties actually existed. This one seemed to be sponsored by the relative of some Regis student who lived in town. The flyer made it very clear that it was to be circulated in secret, upon pain of death if one of the faculty should confiscate it. Billy wondered who had started circulation and how many pockets it had seen before Phil's. It was going to start at 9 PM on Saturday night. Billy wanted to ask Joey if he thought it sounded cool, but Joey wasn't there, and Billy's thoughts were with him.  
  
"Huh," said Billy, and passed the flyer to Snuffy, who seemed eager to see it.  
  
Ric looked over Snuffy's shoulder, his brow furrowed. "We could get in a lot of trouble."  
  
"Yeah," Snuffy said, handing the flyer to Hank. "More trouble than for smoking in the dorms."  
  
"Shut up," Ric said, looking genuinely offended.  
  
Billy wondered what that was all about. Maybe Ric had been busted for it, or maybe Snuffy had gotten them all in trouble once. Billy had never seen Ric smoke, although he'd seen Joey bum once or twice when Snuffy had a pack of cloves. Billy had tried cigarettes and had been bored stiff. Still, he couldn't help but remember Joey insisting cloves were sweet, and he'd watched Joey's mouth for the next few minutes, wondering if it really did. If _they_ really did. Fuck.  
  
"Earth to Billy," Phil said. "Pluto to Billy, for crying out loud, whatever's close enough to reach. Do you want to go?"  
  
"I'll think about it," Billy said, which really meant, "I've got to ask Joey." He got up with his tray, hardly finished, and excused himself. Enough of this hide and seek. That wasn't part of the agreement, and Joey knew it. He was down to his last chance.  
  
When Billy got to the room, he found it empty—but his desk wasn't. There was a tape sitting on top of his French book, in plain sight, with another Post-It stuck on the back. Billy didn't recognize the name—Aimee Mann—but the chick's face rang all kinds of bells; she had a music video out that he'd seen at least a handful of times flipping channels at his mom's place or his dad's place. _Till Tuesday_. Weird name for an album, but that looked familiar, too, as he'd probably read it on the video credits.  
  
_He who has ears to hear_ , said the Post-It, and nothing more.  
  
Billy was suddenly glad that cuing up had been policy since the whole thing started, because, to be honest, with this album, he had the sneaking suspicion he wouldn't have been able to tell signal from noise. Without taking a closer look at the track listing, he shakily slotted the tape into the player, almost dropping it in his haste.  
  
"No," he said when the cheesy, familiar pop-drums started up. "Can't be right."  
  
The voice entrance kept him from turning off the tape. When there wasn't dumb video dialogue intervening, it was a little easier to be carried along by the music—and he had to concede that was probably what Joey wanted. There was something hard about her tone of voice, none of that victim crap that most of the video implied.

  
  
_In the dark, I like to read his mind  
  
but I'm frightened of the things I might find  
  
Oh, there must be something he's thinking of  
  
To tear him away  
  
When I tell him that I'm falling in love_

  
  
"Are you?" Billy asked, realizing he'd taken a death-grip on the edge of Phil's desk.

  
  
_Why does he say  
  
Hush, hush, keep it down now, voices carry_

  
  
"I don't," Billy said, while the line repeated itself. "What are you..."  
  
It wasn't a direct match, of course. None of the songs were. They were doing the best they could with what they had, which was all that anybody could do—in music, in life, in whatever. Billy sat down in Phil's chair, leaning forward. There might be something to the video, if Joey was suggesting he remember it: the guy doesn't like the girl's hobby, which is playing in a band. Right. If Joey had thought Billy would react the way McAllister and company had, that was just dumb. Besides, that issue was out of the way. What was in the way was what they couldn't say, and it was an unfortunately connected tangent. Billy closed his eyes, trying to focus on the words.

  
  
_He wants me, but only part of the time  
  
He wants me, if he can keep me in line_

  
  
"Oh, bullshit," Billy whispered. "That's not it. I told you that."

  
  
_He said, shut up—he said, shut up  
  
Oh, God, can't you keep it down  
  
Voices carry  
  
Hush, hush, voices carry  
  
I wish he would let me talk_

  
  
"I do," Billy said, jamming the stop-button, "and that's _enough_."  
  
Just then, the door opened, and Joey walked in with a couple of sketchbooks under one arm. "What's enough?" he asked, casually, strolling over to his desk. When he realized they were alone in the room, he gave Billy a look that turned from puzzlement to dead-serious comprehension in about three seconds flat. "You might want to remember to turn that off next time," he said. "Phil was bitching about it."  
  
Billy did, punching the power button harder than necessary. "Satisfied?"  
  
"Not really," Joey said, picking up his chair deliberately. He carried it over and sat it down across from Billy's, then reached over to the machine and ejected his tape. "See, you can only get so much out of something like this. It's indirect—and, frankly, frustrating."  
  
"No shit," Billy said, running one hand through his hair. "I mean, haven't I been clear enough?"  
  
"I don't know," Joey said. "I caught you before you could answer. I didn't make provision for something like this. I should've thought about that, or I should've said, if one of us catches the other listening, we're through. Safety catch."  
  
"This game never had one," Billy muttered. "Even if you'd given it one, it wouldn't have."  
  
"Fair enough," Joey sighed, rewinding the tape by hand. "What do you think we should do?"  
  
Billy thought about that for a second. Even before "Voices Carry" had finished, there'd been a line of it that had made him think of a song equally as lame that he could have shoved in Joey's ears, and then they'd have been forced to talk and...get on with things in a civilized manner, or as close to civilized as that particular song would have permitted.  
  
"Go into overtime," he said, simply. "Have a round that's one on one, one more song each, and we each get to sit there while the other listens. No mercy."  
  
Joey went noticeably pale, which took some doing.  
  
"You sure about that?" he asked.  
  
"Yes," Billy said, with as much conviction as he could manage. "I am."  
  
"Okay," Joey said, staring at the floor, nodding slowly, "so, when do you propose we do this? It's not like Phil would leave us alone for long enough, and there's no way in hell I'm taking this act to the rec room, _capisce_?"  
  
The word wasn't often in Joey's vocabulary, for a variety of reasons, and by its very appearance made just the impact he had probably intended it to. Fortunately for Billy, there was an answer staring him in the face. He had to ask Joey about it anyway.  
  
"There's a party off campus on Saturday night," Billy said, slowly. "Nine o'clock. The other guys are going."  
  
"Even Ric?" Joey asked, dubiously.  
  
"Maybe," Billy said, "but he's not our roommate."  
  
"Oh," Joey said, stumbling into a brief pause. "Oh, right."  
  
"Are you up for it?" Billy asked, before he could stop himself.  
  
Joey gave him a hard look. It reminded him of the chick's voice.  
  
"Yes," he said, grating the word out low and slow. He got up and went, taking his chair with him. After a while, it was clear there wasn't going to be any conversation, so Billy went over to his bed, snagging his French book on the way.  
  
God, he hoped he'd never hear that tone of voice again. Still, he had to make sure—  
  
"I get to go first," Billy said, resolutely. "That doesn't change. I have an answer to give."  
  
"That's not fair," Joey said, immediately. "Then my song might not apply."  
  
"You'll just have to make an educated guess, won't you?" Billy said, raising his eyebrows. "It's all I can do, too. You know that we're even here, Joey."  
  
"Yeah," Joey said, not quite defeated, turning back around in his chair. "I know."  


 

* * *

  
  
"I would like to reiterate that you guys," Phil said, checking his reflection one last time, "are lame. This time around, believe me, I've _got_ somebody."  
  
"In theory," Joey said, not bothering to lower his magazine. "Have a blast."  
  
Billy shrugged, clipping a frayed bit of wire. "So, get out of here before the chicks are all taken," he said. "Who's going with you?"  
  
"Snuffy, Hank, Ric," Phil said, reaching for his jacket. "A handful of guys I don't know that well. Gube. A couple guys from the team. Hey, Billy, you joining up next year?"  
  
"We'll see," Billy said, setting aside the pliers. He was so impatient he couldn't stand it. "Get out of here. If you're not a loser, then you don't belong in this room."  
  
"Fine, whatever," Phil said, waving as he opened the door. "You guys can have your music swap. I'm _gone_."  
  
As the door clicked shut, Billy gave Joey a startled look.  
  
"You _told_ him?"  
  
"Yeah," Joey said, tossing down the magazine defensively. "I had to tell him _something_. He wasn't taking no for an answer. Music-swapping is safe enough, and it's true, isn't it?"  
  
"Never mind," Billy said. "Thanks. It worked, anyway."  
  
"Right," Joey said, already halfway down the ladder. "Are we gonna make this quick and painless, or long and excruciating?"  
  
Billy got up, stretching, and walked over to the closet. "I was thinking maybe we'd make it fun," he said, and pulled out the 10-pack of Twix and bottle of Lambrini. "Unless you'd prefer long and excruciating?"  
  
"No way," Joey said, his eyes lighting up. He sat down on the floor, elbows on his knees. Billy took a hint and set the wine and Twix down in front of him.  
  
"Dig in," he said, and went over to his desk. He had to hope the tape hadn't gone anywhere. It hadn't. It was under the open cover of his math book, just where he'd hidden it for easy access.  
  
Billy carried it over to Phil's tape deck and stood there for a few seconds, taking a deep breath. He could hear Joey busily tearing the plastic candy bar packaging apart. Right. He moved the player from the desk to Phil's chair, then turned it on. His Joy Division tape wasn't really his; it'd been given to him on an off chance by a guy who'd almost become a friend at Emerson, his last school. He hadn't been able to cue it properly, so that took another minute or two of awkward fast-forwarding. Joey had started on one of the Twix, crunching intently. Billy hit pause and turned around, clearing his throat.  
  
"Is it all right if I have one, Your Majesty?" Billy asked, silently cursing when he realized he'd cut into the song by about ten seconds. Oh, well, no use going back to fix it. There were no words yet, anyway, and Joey was holding out a Twix bar, patting the floor. There was no sign of recognition in his eyes. Shit, had he not heard this?  
  
"Sure," Joey said. Billy took the candy bar and sat down, starting on the wrapper right away. What he really wanted to do was open the wine, but that somehow seemed rude.

  
  
_Walk in silence  
  
Don't walk away in silence  
  
See the danger  
  
Always danger  
  
Endless talking  
  
Life rebuilding  
  
Don't walk away_

  
  
"Huh," Joey said, already on the second piece of his Twix. "I like this. It sounds kind of familiar. One of the guys might've had it."  
  
"One of our guys?" Billy asked, too nervous to take another bite. He did anyway.  
  
"No," Joey said, mouth half full, shaking his head. "One of mine. From the band."  
  
They lapsed into silence as the background got more complicated, the drums more urgent.

  
  
_Walk in silence  
  
Don't turn away in silence  
  
Your confusion  
  
My illusion  
  
Worn like a mask of self-hate  
  
Confronts and then dies  
  
Don't walk away_

  
  
Billy finished off one piece of chocolate, sneaking a sidelong glance at Joey. He was staring at the floor, empty wrapper crumpled in one hand, arms resting on his raised knees. He dropped the wrapper and reached for the wine, avoiding Billy's eyes.  
  
"I'm that bad, huh?" he asked, twisting the cap loose with a low hiss of breath. He looked at Billy, finally, and took a drink straight from the bottle. "Huh?" he repeated, offering the bottle. Unable to do much of anything else, Billy took it.  
  
"Sometimes," Billy admitted, taking a long swig. This would be easier once he got a buzz.  
  
"You talk so fucking much, but when somebody _wants_ to get something out of you..." Joey shook his head and held out his hand for the wine. Billy gave it to him.

  
  
_People like you find it easy  
  
Naked to see  
  
Walking on air  
  
Hunting by the rivers  
  
Through the street  
  
Every corner abandoned too soon  
  
Set down with due care  
  
Don't walk away in silence  
  
Don't walk away_

  
  
Joey almost spit the drink he was taking back into the bottle. The look he gave Billy was pure venom, and instead of offering him the bottle again, he set it down with enough force to slosh some wine on the floor. Billy hadn't been expecting a shove in the side, either.  
  
"Easy? You think I find it _easy_?" he demanded. "You complete asshole. I'm lucky I can get away with _pretending_ it's easy. Do you have any fucking idea what it's like when people can read you inside and out and all you're trying to do is _keep_ them out?"  
  
"Joey," Billy said, deliberately setting down what was left of his Twix, "no. What I mean is...fuck, okay, what I mean is that you make it _look_ easy. I wish I could shut myself up the way you do, but I always sucked at it, so I stopped trying. Even if it doesn't actually keep people out, it still works. It makes _you_ feel safe."  
  
Joey wrapped his arms around his knees, glaring at Billy, then at the floor.  
  
"I don't feel safe. I never feel safe. Well, except—"  
  
"Except what?" Billy asked, picking up the bottle. Godammit, he needed to be drunk _now_.  
  
Joey took it away from him and set it back down, hard enough to produce a loud _clink_ that made Billy wince. "Except when you're here," he said, getting up and dusting his boxers off. He didn't even trip over the words, just strolled over to his desk and picked up a cassette tape that had been sitting in plain sight. "Or there, or anywhere," Joey said, each word boring into Billy with as much force as his eyes, waving the tape at him as he backpedaled to the tape player. "As long as you're with me. Got it?"  
  
"For fuck's sake," Billy said, standing up, finding the room a bit tilted. "I could've told you that a few songs ago—no, I thought I _did_ tell you a few songs ago, and—"  
  
"And you'll drink a lot, and I can be mean," Joey said sarcastically, and hit play. "Is that it? And nothing will change, ever, because you couldn't ever deal with more?"  
  
_More what?_ Billy thought, desperately. _More of this? Fuck no, I'd die!_  
  
Joey was looking at the floor again, arms folded across his chest. Listening.  
  
Chagrined, Billy swallowed and did the same. The xylophone had a haunting quality to it; there was something just too self-consciously brooding about the song to be mainstream.

  
  
_When the night is closing  
  
Eyes are running wild  
  
Then I hear you humming  
  
All night long  
  
The sign, I see it  
  
Tell me am I true  
  
All I need from you is  
  
All I see  
  
This city's paved with cold  
  
Playboys buying fun  
  
Seems there is no hunter left  
  
Without his hunting gun_

  
  
"Joey," Billy said, slowly, unable look up at him, "that shit McAllister said, tell me it wasn't—"  
  
"No," Joey said, sounding more like he was about to laugh than smash Billy's face in. "But thanks for your concern. I'm not that stupid."  
  
"I didn't think so," Billy said, screwing his eyes shut again. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_. He didn't know the song, he didn't know the artist, and that meant it was something out of nowhere. It hadn't existed until this moment.

  
  
_Can you feel the light  
  
The air is wild open  
  
Oh, you see the light—it's coming through  
  
It's there in the distance  
  
Always offered to me  
  
Always coming over a hill  
  
Oh, your see-saw smile  
  
Lasts me all night long  
  
Like a siren's curl  
  
When the night is long  
  
Now, come hold my hand  
  
No bad vibe hearts  
  
Hold my hand you know  
  
This journey could be long_

  
  
"Already too long," Joey murmured.  
  
Billy wondered if that was somehow technically breaking the rules, commenting on his own choice of music, as if to nudge Billy along to the place he'd inevitably end up anyway. Screw the rules. Billy was getting tired of playing, and dammit, he shouldn't like the song, but it was strange and gorgeous—and, like Joey, perfect.

  
  
_Yeah, the seasons come in  
  
All the nights are woven  
  
All the nights, we'll see them through  
  
Ah, no hundred men now  
  
Would dare cut into us  
  
We'll go on and see it through_

  
  
"Who is this?" Billy asked, finally looking up at Joey. They were gone, far gone.  
  
Joey bit his lip and smiled at the floor, swallowing a moment of gentle hysteria. "Peter Murphy," he said, meeting Billy's gaze almost shyly. " _All Night Long_. Didn't think it would be on your radar. Not much, is it?"  
  
"It's all right," Billy lied. There was an interlude going on, creepy muttering in French that sounded like it had been pulled out of an old movie or radio show, and he could only pick up every few words or so because Joey was still looking at him.  
  
"I'm not much," Joey said, as if he owed Billy an apology. "But, you know, I appreciate the consolation prizes." His eyes flicked to the Twix and Lambrini that sat all but forgotten on the floor. "I never expected that much, either."  
  
The flicker in Billy's chest came back without warning, but this time, it caught and simmered.  
  
"You're everything, do you understand me?" he was saying, uncertain of when he'd closed the distance between them or how he'd managed to grab hold of Joey's shoulders without Joey punching the blinding light right out of him. "Don't say that. I got you that stuff before we decided to do this, because I..." Billy stopped, wishing he hadn't drunk any wine. Joey staring at him with eyes that wanted to be wide, but didn't dare to be.  
  
"Do you need to sit down?" Joey asked, uncertainly.  
  
"No, dammit," Billy said, as soberly as he could, and let his hands fall from Joey's shoulders down to his elbows. Awkwardly, he drew Joey in and pressed his lips to Joey's cheek—almost to the corner of Joey's mouth, but not quite—and held him.

  
  
_Yeah, the sign I see it  
  
Yeah, the times I see it  
  
All I need to know from you  
  
Is all I see_

  
  
Joey made a strangled sound and tried to pull away. "Billy—"  
  
"Shut up, shut up, I _heard_ you," Billy said, breathlessly, almost horrified at how well the game had worked, how the songs had become them. "Joey," he whispered, and turned his head just enough. Joey's lips weren't sweet: they were dry, cool, and tasted faintly of white wine mixed with chocolate. It was a bitter taste, and a true one.  
  
"Fuck," Joey said, and tried to pull away again, but Billy opened his mouth this time. He stepped in closer, his bare toes brushing Billy's, and returned the kiss more tenderly than Billy had ever expected that someone like Joey would kiss. Billy felt his knees wobble.  
  
Joey had both arms around Billy's waist. They tightened, but he didn't pull away.  
  
Billy found stumbling over to the bed difficult, but he was definitely the one to start them in that direction. Joey stepped on the Twix bars—first a loud swear, then sheepish laughter—then took hold of Billy's hands and made sure he didn't knock over the Lambrini. Then, the top bunk got in the way, but at least neither of them ended up with fatal concussions. Billy's bed was a mess, unmade and covered in clothes, and he tried to mumble an apology, but Joey was back in his arms and he never wanted to stop kissing him again, ever. Joey's hands were cold as they slipped up under his shirt, but by the time they reached his shoulder blades they were warm. Joey was more or less under Billy now, his mouth less tender than insistent, trembling almost as badly as he was.  
  
"Jesus, sorry," Billy mumbled against Joey's lips, panting with the difficulty of separation. He obviously hadn't had enough to drink, as he was sober enough for second thoughts to be crowding in his head and too much blood to be rushing elsewhere. He shifted, uncomfortable and _too_ comfortable all at once.  
  
Joey gave him a hazy look that was curiously soft for all of the hurt that it was hiding. He pressed in closer so that they were side by side now, legs tangled, touching foreheads. Joey was hard against his belly, not even trying to hide it. Unthinking, Billy reached down and touched him through his boxers, sighing. God, he wanted—  
  
" _Fuck_ ," Joey mumbled. "Billy," he whispered, covering Billy's hand with his own, but not to push it away. He tilted his hips, moving with Billy's hand. "I didn't—"  
  
"I don't care," Billy heard himself say, already working his hand inside so he could touch Joey's skin instead of teasing him. Joey moaned and buried his face in the pillow, and it was all Billy could do not to push things faster than they were already going: he wanted to undress Joey and undress himself, then lay them both down with all the scary intensity of that fucking song and kiss him until neither of them could take it.  
  
_Later_ , he thought, and kissed Joey's hair over and over, concentrating on the feel of Joey in his hand and how close Joey was, almost sobbing against Billy's neck, fingernails biting into Billy's shoulders. He choked and came silently—equally unexpected—and Billy held him, shaking with the weight of it, the sheer relief.  
  
Billy had half hoped Joey would forget about him, just let himself _be_ everything and all Billy could ask for in that moment, but he only lay still for a few seconds before disentangling himself from Billy, ignoring the mess, and working Billy's boxers down around his hips as best he could. Joey's hand on him was tentative, as gentle as the first kiss.  
  
"No way am I letting you go," Joey whispered, eyes piercing even at close range, and kissed Billy again, as deep and demanding as the second. "Not after that. Not now."  
  
Billy felt that he could've done better, could've held on for a while longer, but Joey's mouth and sure, careful fingers were too much for whatever self-control he had left.  
  
"Oh _God_ ," he groaned, and the blaze in his chest swallowed him whole.  
  
Joey kissed Billy even harder, maybe to stifle his scream or maybe for the joy of it.  
  
Later, after they'd managed to clean up, get naked, and sleep for a while, Billy realized that the tape had run out. Joey was just as sweet as he'd hoped, but in ways he was sure that cloves and chocolate couldn't match. He wanted to talk, but Joey was silent, wrapped around Billy as if he was trying to find every possible point at which they could touch. Billy flexed his hands against Joey's shoulder blades, then wrapped his arms tight around Joey's waist and nuzzled his throat. Joey's scent was familiar, an all-pervasive part of living in close quarters, but now it was irreplaceable.  
  
"Sleepyhead," Billy whispered.  
  
"I'm awake," Joey said, his voice clear and even.  
  
"We can't stay like this," Billy said, unable to hide his regret. "Phil's coming home soon."  
  
"Billy, it's past midnight. They might not come back at all, or maybe they got busted."  
  
"You sound awfully concerned."  
  
"Not my fault they decided to be stupid."  
  
Illogically, Billy wanted to roll Joey over and start all over again, but they really couldn't risk it. "I think Hank has more sense than that," he said, wistfully. "He'll get them out of there on time even if that means that they leave when the cows come home."  
  
Joey propped himself up on one elbow so he could look at Billy properly. One of his hands was still tangled in Billy's hair. The gesture had a hint of possessiveness about it, but then, Billy hadn't been anything _but_ possessive with Joey since they'd fallen into bed. He gave Billy a quick kiss, combed Billy's hair smooth, and sat up.  
  
"If I play for you, can we get dressed and go to bed so we don't have to explain why Phil died of a heart attack?"  
  
"I guess," Billy sighed, as if the alternative really wouldn't be so bad.  
  
Joey put on his boxers and t-shirt, then picked up Billy's clothes and threw them on top of his head. Billy tugged them off and stuck his tongue out, reluctantly following suit.  
  
"Or, you know, we could just screw around like this until we hear somebody coming up the hall," Joey said, crawling back onto the bed. "I'm game."  
  
"I hate to say it, but your game is over," Billy said, lifting the covers so they could both huddle back underneath. "I _do_ want to hear you play, though."  
  
"Tomorrow," Joey said, already burrowing against Billy's chest. "I'll play for everybody."  
  
"Everybody everybody?" Billy asked, holding him close.  
  
"No, dickhead, just you and the guys."  
  
"That's a start," Billy said, yawning. They were quiet for what felt like a long while, and Billy was yanked back from the edge of sleep by distant footsteps and a question that, with any luck, Joey wouldn't be able to answer. Gently, he shook Joey awake.  
  
"So, who won?"  
  
Joey made a confused noise, then a panicked one, and punched Billy in the arm.  
  
" _Heroes_ , moron," he said, propping his chin on Billy's shoulder. "Aren't we?"  
  
"Yeah, we are," Billy said, and waited for someone—Phil or Dean Parker—to knock.


End file.
